


Love You More

by sonofabiscuit77



Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Loves Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester in Heaven, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Grief/Mourning, Loss, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Post-Season/Series 15, References to Depression, Reunion Sex, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester in Heaven, Top Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: Post Carry On angsty smut. The Winchesters reunite in heaven, in bed. There was no post-Dean apple pie life for Sam, just Dean's overactive imagination.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Planet Waves series (Post Carry On fics) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089722
Comments: 8
Kudos: 243





	Love You More

**Author's Note:**

> I've created a series of post-finale fics, as this can be seen as a companion piece to my other post-finale fic, _You and Me, Babe, How About It?_ This is a different take on Sam's post-Dean life. 
> 
> Title taken from "The Wedding Song" by Bob Dylan & the Band, it being one of the most wincesty songs in existence.

Love You More 

_You're the other half of what I am, you're the missing piece  
And I love you more than ever with that love that doesn't cease._

“So, tell me about it,” Dean said after the second time. 

“About what?” Sam lifted his head from Dean’s chest, and looked down at his brother. 

Dean had his hands laced behind his head, face angled toward Sam, lips parted and bruised pink from razor burn. Sam drank him in, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the brassy head of the amulet lying on his flushed chest. Dean raised his eyebrows pointedly. “You know, man. About your life. Your family, little Dean Junior.” 

Sam blinked. “Dean Junior?” 

Dean huffed and shifted, the mattress dipping and rolling as he moved, causing Sam to slide closer, his thigh pressing into Dean’s, and their shoulders knocking. Dean reached around to arrange his pillows, the amulet dangling away from his chest as he made a big show of punching them into a comfortable pile. 

“Dean, what are you…” Sam started to say. 

“Your family,” Dean interrupted, an insistent look on his face. “The life you built, you know, your apple pie normal life, picket fence, softball in the backyard. Time goes differently here - at least that’s what Bobby said, so you must’ve had years. Time to build a normal life, like you always wanted. With a wife and a kid that you called Dean Junior after his much handsomer uncle. I want to know about all of it. Your wife, what was she like? Did she take good care of you? I know she must’ve been hot, with long dark hair, and tall like you, kinda willowy, and she liked doing embroidery, crafty shit like that…” 

“Embroidery?” Sam repeated. He wanted to laugh at the preposterous picture Dean was painting, except the expectant, hopeful look on his brother’s face was doing that thing to him that made it hard to breathe. “Dean, what are you talking about?” 

Dean stared at him, then the look slid off his face. “Fuck, Sam,” Dean sighed. “You didn’t do any of that, did you?” 

Sam shook his head, swallowing over the lump in his throat as he saw the disappointment on Dean's face.“No. I tried. But. I uh.” He broke off, twisting his mouth, and saying pointlessly, “Dean, I’m sorry.” 

Dean nodded to himself, not looking at him. Sam exhaled heavily, and stared down at the covers pooling in Dean’s lap, the shape of his thighs through the thin cotton and the sticky smears of come and lube on the sheets. Dean had said goodbye, asking permission for Sam to let him go so Sam could live on, wanting for Sam to live out this bullshit domestic apple-pie life that Dean’s twisted brain had imagined was what Sam had wanted. 

“Okay,” Dean said at last. “Okay. But, Sammy, at least tell me you didn’t try to bring me back? Not this time, not after… after everything.” 

Sam raised his head, meeting his brother’s gaze. “I thought about it. Every day.” 

Dean huffed a breath, his lips twitching in bitter amusement. “Yeah. Of course you did. So, how long then? How long did you carry on without me?” 

“Eight months, three days, two hours,” Sam said. 

“Was it a hunt?” 

“Yeah. A spirit. It was… was haunting an old churchyard. We were in the building, and something collapsed, falling masonry I guess. I got pinned. It all happened really fast.” 

The memory was fading already, but if he closed his eyes then he could recall the slow crushing weight, the dust in his lungs, and sticky wet claggy blood under his numbing fingers. He hadn’t struggled, dimly aware of Jody’s arm reaching under the pile of stones and dust to brush his side, seeing the white patch of her face, stark through the gap in the rubble, just one eye, her cheekbone and the edge of her mouth, her voice echoing faintly, _Sam, it’s okay, it’s dead. Claire got it. We called an ambulance, they’re coming, they’re on their way, just… stay with me, okay? Hold on, Sam. Stay here with me. I’m here, okay?_

Sinking, snatching and coughing for air, Jody’s voice fading away. He’d closed his eyes and thought, _Dean, I’m coming._

“You got taken out by a piece of masonry?” Dean raised his eyebrows, disbelieving.

“Says the guy who got taken out by a rebar.” 

“Ouch!" Dean made a face, pursing his lips. "But yeah, that's fair.” 

“Guess that’s what happens when you get honest to God free will,” Sam said. He exchanged a look with Dean who snorted, looking amused. “Yeah, guess so.” 

They’d shifted even closer together, Dean’s face only inches from his so he could make out the individual freckles on Dean’s nose and cheeks. He looked younger, maybe as much as ten years younger than when he’d died, like he’d looked that time after Sam had gotten his soul back, when they’d been hunting Eve. They’d had a couple of months then, himself whole again, soul intact, not remembering Lucifer or the Cage, at least not for that short time, and he’d been in love, he remembered that, so overwhelmingly in love. So happy to be with Dean again, knowing intellectually what he’d been through and what they’d both sacrificed, that they’d spent months apart, but remembering and feeling none of it. The two of them back together, and on a clear-eyed, no grey areas monster hunt, not thinking about angels or demons, and Dean so joyfully, blissfully happy to have him back, loving him in the scorched-earth, end-of-days way that only Dean could. 

“I wanted it, Dean. Every day. Every hunt. I was so close to the edge. I wanted to follow you so damn much, and - and don’t you dare tell me that you would’ve been any different.” 

He watched Dean nod imperceptibly, swallowing, his eyes greedy on the dip and roll of Dean’s throat as he took in his words. 

“Come on. What did you think would happen, man? You _left_ me.” 

He could hear his voice break, the scratchy rawness of it, and it made him think of the days and days that had passed without talking to anybody. Weeks and months of it, of time passing so damn slowly, crawling along, a lifetime sentence of it, and then at the same time a day would go by, and he wouldn’t even see it, sitting alone in a motel room, and he’d blink and it would be dark, and he’d missed seeing the sun go down, his body living on, but not breathing, not really, not with a chasm in his chest. Waking up and falling back down again, was it day, was it night, stiff with not moving, rusty with not talking, rolling over and falling into nothing, sinking and sinking some more, until Miracle would nudge him, whining and insistent and hungry, butting at his frozen, rusting body, forcing him to move, get up, get up, get up Sam, find food for your brother’s dog, Dean would never forgive you if you let his beloved pet starve. 

“A hot willowy wife who likes embroidery… How could you think-- what makes you think that I would be in any way okay without you? You said it, Dean. You and me. You and me, come what may. And that’s… that’s all I want, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

Dean lifted his hand to circle Sam’s neck, pulling him in blindly, and Sam let him, going with it, falling into his brother’s warm body, and clutching at him, his fingers pressing into the hard muscle, the warm, tough reality of Dean. Not enough, not yet, not ever enough. Dean kissed him hard, and Sam wrapped his hand around the back of his brother’s head and kissed him back, pushing and pressing and tumbling down into the ruined bed, hotter and more furious than it had been the first time or the second. Dean let him, falling back and spreading his legs and taking it. Sam rolled until he was blanketing his brother, pausing to lift his head and look down into Dean’s kiss-bruised face, the amulet indenting into Sam’s chest, the sense memory taking him back years. 

He hooked one finger under the amulet’s cord, and tugged it gently. “Where did you get this?” 

“It was in the car. Glove compartment,” he said. “Along with my cassettes. And the Colt. Which is kinda weird, ‘cause you know, didn’t think we’d need a special demon-killing gun in heaven.” 

Sam kept staring at him, drinking his fill, cataloguing and comparing, the brother that looked younger than his last sight of him, but that so many of the details: the small scar under his bottom lip from one of his many collisions with gravestones over the years, the spiky golden scrape of his stubble against Sam’s own cheek, the glassy, glossy, slack look in his eyes when he was really turned on. Was this real? Was this Dean? Even after the sex, after a lost number of kisses, after the bridge and the car and the road, after this isolated motel and the one king, he still felt raw and opened up in a way that made every breath hurt like a run on a freezing cold day. Those months, Dean’s absence, his own death, they were all slipping, they suddenly seemed like another age, another lifetime - which maybe they were - and Dean felt solid and real underneath him, watching him closely like he could read every thought passing through Sam’s head. 

“I’m here,” Dean said. 

“I know,” Sam said. 

Dean looked like he wasn’t totally buying it, but he cupped the back of Sam’s head, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. It was shorter than it had been when he died, and Sam wondered how old he looked, he guessed he looked younger, like Dean, the two of them synching up. 

“What happens next?” he asked. 

“Well I don’t know about you, man, but I was thinking, your cock, my ass,” said Dean. 

Sam gave him a look. If this was some facsimile of Dean then it was so Dean-like he was going to let himself go with it, just enjoy it. Then again, only Dean could be simultaneously this desirable and this infuriating. 

“After that. You know, with our lives. Like, do we even have lives, we’re dead. How big is this place? What are we supposed to do here?” 

Dean shrugged and wriggled out from under Sam, nudging him away with one shoulder as best he could. Sam went with it, rolling back onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He couldn’t see Dean’s face anymore, eyes level with his chest, the amulet in his sightline.

“I don’t know, we can do whatever you want. Bobby said Mom and Dad were around. Somewhere.” 

“Mom and Dad?” He tilted his head back, looking up into his brother’s face. “Shit, Dean, did you - did you see them?” 

Slowly Dean shook his head. “No.” 

“Fuck.” “He pushed himself up, leaning back against the headboard, his shoulder brushing Dean’s, shifting his thigh so it pressed into Dean’s side. “I guess then everyone is… they’re all here?” 

“I guess. Like I told you, Bobby said Jack’d done a makeover. Top to bottom. So yeah, everyone’s gotta be here somewhere.” 

“And you haven’t seen any of them?” 

“No, man, just Bobby. He was there, like my own personal welcome wagon, when I showed up.” He hesitated, darting a glance at Sam, looking a little embarrassed before he added, “I don't know, it felt wrong, going to see anyone, when you weren’t here.” 

Sam nudged him. “You were waiting for me.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam…” 

“You totally were. You were waiting for me.”

Dean sighed, but Sam didn’t let him say anything else to ruin the moment, he leaned over again, capturing his brother’s mouth in a kiss and rolling them both down into the sheets once more. 

“You waited for me,” he gasped when he finally let Dean’s mouth go, staring down into Dean’s flushed face. 

Dean tangled his hand in Sam’s hair, and yanked Sam’s head to one side, leaning up to lick the side of his neck. “Dude, shut up.” 

Sam shivered and laughed. “Yeah, yeah, well. We got time,” he said. Then paused because he wasn’t sure. “Haven’t we?” 

“Yeah, yeah, we got time,” Dean said, reassuring. “Hmm…” he sank back, spreading his fingers to cup Sam’s head. His expression turned lascivious, hips tilting and rolling, hard line of his cock pressing up into Sam’s belly. “Figure we should get this out of our system first.” 

Sam leaned down to kiss him again, letting Dean direct the kiss as he slid one hand under the sheets, and between Dean’s parted thighs, fingers crawling over Dean’s slick skin to his already slippery hole. Dean shuddered and craned up, not breaking the kiss as they kissed and kissed. 

“Fuck,” Sam groaned, and Dean moaned, scraping his teeth over Sam’s mouth, sucking at his bottom lip, biting gently, and shuddering again as Sam slipped his fingers inside his brother. Dean was still sticky and slick from before; Sam’s own release and come making the slip and slide so easy, no need to stretch him again, still loose from last time. “Fuck, _fuck_ , Dean, so fucking dirty… so ready for me,” he murmured. 

“Stop fucking talking about it, and fuck me, Sam,” Dean muttered, panting into the side of Sam’s face, his ass muscles clenching around Sam’s fingers. 

Sam snorted a breath, and loomed up and over him, propping himself on his forearm, and reaching for the lube, open from where he’d left it on the nightstand only minutes - hours - days - earlier. He slicked his cock fast, lube dripping onto the ruined sheets. Dean was propped on his elbows, gaze half-lidded, and lashes grazing his cheeks, so fucking desirable when he gazed down his body to meet Sam’s eyes. Sam stilled, taken out of the moment and suddenly certain through every bone in his body that any minute now he was going to wake up. He blinked, hesitating, forgotten for a second, feeling the blank wave of terror start to climb, his breath stuttering… 

“Sam, Sammy, hey.” Dean’s hand was cradling his face, voice insistent. “Hey, look at me, here, look at me.” 

Sam swallowed, chest muscles rigid, forcing himself to exhale, inhale, when he turned his gaze back to Dean’s face. Dean’s eyes were fixed on him, lips parting on a fond smile when Sam blinked and took him in, Dean’s expression open and soft and locked on him, so completely intimate in that way that only Sam got to see. “Hey, hey. I’m here, okay?” 

Sam nodded dazedly, becoming aware once more of his sticky, lubed-up fingers, of Dean underneath him, spread open and ready, so fucking absurd and familiar all of it. He licked his lips, trying to find his voice again.

“Dean, I, uh.” He ground to a halt, not remembering what he was going to say. 

“It’s okay,” said Dean softly. “Just stick that tentpole of yours inside me. You can do that, right?” He caught Sam’s gaze, and his eyebrows lifted. God, Sam loved him so much. _“Right, Sam?”_

Sam’s mouth quirked, letting out the breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. “Right, Dean,” he echoed. Dean grinned approvingly, reaching long to smack him on the ass as Sam shifted back between his brother’s thighs. 

He slid his hands under Dean’s hips to lift and position his ass, fingers punching into Dean’s thigh muscles, hearing the appreciative groan from Dean as he slowly slid home. Dean exhaled loudly, cursing under his breath and gripping Sam’s thigh as Sam leaned up and over him again. 

“Okay?” Sam whispered. He stroked his hand through Dean’s short hair, coming to rest on his cheek, thumb on Dean’s bruised bottom lip, forefinger on the curve of his eyebrow. 

Dean bit his lip and nodded, and Sam pushed in and back, hips moving languorously. Dean groaning and cursing and reaching for him, fingers climbing up Sam’s side to fold around his shoulder, pulling him in and down, closer and closer, until they were sharing breaths once more, kissing again, messy and dirty, finding the rhythm that was as familiar as brushing his teeth or taking a piss. Hundreds of times, thousands of times had he fucked his brother, and maybe not this often in a few short hours… _(was it really only hours… how did time work around here anyway?)_ Maybe not three times in one day, at least not in a long while. Back when Sam was a horny seventeen year old with a boulder-sized chip on his shoulder and a laundry list of issues, that summer in the Florida Keys before senior year, when Dad had left them for weeks in a trailer park with barely any money and unreliable air conditioning. The weeks when they’d worn only boxers or swim shorts, fighting the neverending heat and constant horniness by screwing around on the used mattresses they’d thrown across the entire floor of the trailer, salvaging them from the other trailers that they’d been paid to clean out, working for beer and food and laundry money.

He’d followed Dean around as they worked, plastered to his side with his mouth wedged to the crook of Dean’s neck and his hand down the back of Dean’s shorts. They’d found a gay porno mag clearing out a trailer one day, and they’d kept it, pouring over it together, their hands on each other’s dicks as they jerked off to the pictures, the pages eventually sticking together, until they had to peel them apart, slow and careful so as not to tear their favourite models. Dean had wanted to try every position on every page, and Sam had been game for that ‘cause he’d been game for anything that meant he got to keep touching Dean all the time. 

“Fuck, Sam, fuck,” Dean was saying ‘cause he was never quiet when it was like this, even back in the bunker, and thank God they’d had those concrete walls. “Jesus, Sam, come on… Come on, touch me...” He opened his eyes, and looked up at Sam, fingers clutching at the back of Sam’s neck as Sam got the message, sliding his hand down from where he was bracing himself against the headboard to encircle and fist Dean’s cock, thumb over the head, once, and then again, watching the sensation ripple through Dean, seeing the shudder of pleasure on Dean’s face, saying, “Fuck, yeah, Sammy, that’s right, yeah…” as Sam fisted him, up and down, Dean coaching him, big brother as ever, _I love you so much, my baby brother_ … all of it there, in Dean’s eyes, and Dean had to know. Fuck, he must know, how much Sam… 

Dean stuttered, shuddered, and then he was coming, gasping out a jagged breath, his cock twitching in Sam’s hand, spurting over Sam’s fingers. Dean moaning, fingers scrabbling for hold on Sam’s back as Sam drove into him, once more, twice, three times… and then, he was done, following Dean, eyes boring into Dean’s face, and Dean was looking up at him, his whole fucking life, his world right there. _I love you,_ Sam thought again, _more than ever, more than everything._

He collapsed down onto Dean, panting for breath as his spent cock twitched out the aftershocks. Dean’s hand crawled over his back, mindlessly petting through his hair, murmuring his name. With a huge effort Sam pushed up into his hands, slowly pulling out of Dean, and collapsing onto his back, the mattress shuddering and shaking underneath him. 

“We are so gonna need to wash these sheets,” Dean said after a moment. 

Sam laughed shakily. “Yeah. Are there laundromats here?” 

Dean snorted, and jostled him, rolling onto his side and then up, swinging his legs to the floor. Sam took in the perfect C of his bent spine, the span of his shoulder blades, the red marks on his flanks and shoulders in the shape of Sam’s fingers, and the black cord of the amulet around his neck. Dean looked over his shoulder, and leered at him. 

“You look like a centrefold, like gay Penthouse,” he said. Sam scoffed, and Dean grinned wider, appreciating. “My little brother, such a fucking stallion.” 

He pushed to his feet, and padded into the bathroom. Sam heard the shower turn on, the toilet flush, the sound of Dean humming, loud enough to hear over the groaning plumbing. He rolled out of bed to follow ‘cause being one room apart was still too much. Maybe it would get better, but not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. He swished aside the shower curtain, taking in the back view of Dean, before he clambered in after him, Dean turning and smiling, reaching for him with his hair plastered to his head, spitting water. Sam cradled his face, and leaned down to kiss him, getting a mouthful of shower water along with Dean. 

“How old do you think I look?” Sam said later, holding a razor - his, Dean’s - he wasn’t sure where it had come from - and looking at himself in the mirror over the sink. 

Dean ambled up behind him, half-dressed in an undershirt and boxers, his hair still damp and the amulet around his neck. 

Sam peered into the mirror, parting his hair. “No grey,” he said. 

“Shame, thought the grey was kinda hot,” said Dean. “Like, hot older professor hot.” 

Sam made a face at his brother’s reflection. Dean grinned at him. “You look younger too,” Sam told him. “You think that means something?” 

Dean shrugged. “Long as it means we can go three times in, what, like three - four...hours I don’t care. We haven’t done it that much since--” 

“Since Florida,” Sam filled in, “that summer.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said slowly, catching and holding Sam’s gaze. He raked his eyes up and down Sam’s body, cruising him. “And now I’m imagining you like that again. Seventeen year old Sammy, the sweetest fucking jailbait.” He pushed his tongue between his teeth, grinning wide and wicked and dirty. 

Sam flushed, and rolled his eyes, and Dean jostled him, heading out into the motel room. 

Sam dropped his razor, he didn’t need to shave. He followed Dean out into the room. “So, what now?” 

Dean paused with his hand on his duffle. “Want to go for a drive?” 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic I went with the reading of Sam's post-Dean life being a figment of Dean's overactive imagination, and the reality being a lot darker. This is arguably a lot closer to the versions of Sam that we see on Show when Dean is dead/demonic/missing. The idea that Sam with his level of trauma and codependency would be able to pick up and carry-on without Dean for at least 30 years (especially after the months/years of Winchester domestic bliss they must have experienced between 15x19 - 15x20) I find very difficult to accept. 
> 
> So yeah, I think on balance, having written both versions, my head canon leans more towards desperate suicidal Sam than married good-dad Sam. But I do like that Show leaves it up to our interpretation.


End file.
